Not for Women

A few days ago, I recently viewed the above commercial (from YouTube) for the first time.  My husband found it to be pretty funny, and I did too when I finally could figure out where I had previously seen the main actor in it.  I particularly enjoyed how he spills his soda all over himself in an attempt to pour it into a glass full of ice while riding through what appears to be a remake of an action scene from… well, take your pick of any recent action movies that take place in a jungle.

What I found to be especially funny, though, is what this soda is and to whom they are marketing it.  Dr. Pepper TEN is a ten-calorie drink being marketed specifically to men.  In fact, the actor even says, “It’s not for women,” at the end of the commercial, just in case we didn’t get that vibe from its other content.  Don’t get me wrong; I think the commercial is pretty clever and all and rightly engineered to appeal to all of the macho, I-don’t-want-to-be-seen-as-girly-so-I-won’t-even-go-near-anything-that-could-be-thought-of-as-girly men out there in the world today.  But my question is this:  does the fact that this drink has ten more calories than zero calorie diet drinks (that apparently are seen as womanly by many?) really make that much of a difference to men out there who won’t drink diet?  I mean, it’s ten calories… just ten.  Doesn’t that still make it a diet drink, and if so, will the marketing alone drive these men to buy it?  This one is just pretty interesting to me.

Proud to Be a Red Birds Fan

Most everyone who knows me well knows that I am a St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan.  In all honesty, growing up in St. Louis makes it really difficult not to be.  With arguably the greatest fans in the game, we in and from St. Louis definitely love our Red Birds, which is why I’m completely stoked that they are in the World Series this week.

I understand that, for many, watching baseball is an acquired taste, and for some, watching sports altogether is a waste of time.  For me, watching the Cardinals play isn’t only strategic and stimulating; it’s a connection linking me to family members who I see only once or twice a year.  My parents and older brothers all still live in St. Louis and I, of course, in Woodward, yet when I’m watching or listening to a Cardinals baseball game, I can be assured I’m not the only one of my family doing so.  And I’ve even come to expect a phone call from one of them (most likely my mom—the biggest Cardinals fan you’ll ever meet) after a close game or a big win.

You see, silly as this all may sound to some, Cardinals baseball played a key role in my family life growing up.  When I was a young elementary school student, my parents didn’t really have a whole lot.  Amazingly we always had food on the table and clothes on our backs, but looking back, there were times I’m not quite sure how they pulled it off.  Our family definitely was not in a position financially to take many vacations, which of course is not unlike many families today.  However, my parents always made sure that we got at least one vacation every summer:  a trip to Busch Stadium in downtown St. Louis to see a Cardinals baseball game.  My brothers and I helped to pull this off, as our elementary school gave away free Cardinals tickets for straight A’s, and my mom and dad always saw to it that going to the game was a special event, right down to arriving early for batting practice and buying the souvenir plastic cups at the concession stand.  I might agree with those who say watching a game on television can be dull (except when it’s a post-season game), but I still boldly proclaim that there’s nothing like watching a baseball game at Busch Stadium (old or new).

So basically you know where I’ve spent my nights for the past couple of weeks and where I’ll be for at least a couple nights more.  In fact, as I write I am watching Game Four of the series, and unfortunately, the Cards are down 4-0 with only one more chance to get some runs.  Not looking good for tonight and I’m not really sure if they can pull out the series over the Rangers, but hey—they were ten and a half games down late in August and three games out with only five to play at the end of the season.  I’m just thrilled that they’re even in it!

A Nagging Question...

Tonight is the last night of my Modern British Poetry class, so I’m just gonna jump into things right off by posing a question that has been nagging me all semester:  Can my, or for that matter, anyone’s interpretations of works of poetry really be wrong?  I’ve seen some of my classmates post that they disagree with my or others’ responses to poems (which I’m almost totally fine with), and I myself have thought at times when reading others’ interpretations, I don’t really think that’s what this poem is saying.  But given the subjectivity of poetry, especially modern and postmodern poetry that tends to be obscure and unclear for several different purposes, can someone’s interpretation, given that it’s an interpretation within the realm of possibility, be wrong?  In my mind I think, Well, the poet obviously had a meaning in mind when he/she wrote the poem, so really, it seems that there can only be one possible meaning and we’re just giving our best guess as to what it is.  But then I think, What if the poet has a meaning in mind but also leaves open the possibility for other interpretations?  And then I wonder if the writer’s intention can even be considered in this postmodern culture, and instead we’re just destined to be left with this subjective lump of words that can mean different things at different times.  Perhaps the writer has intention, but then the language takes over and becomes a life unto itself.  To be sure, the way people today interpret “Hawk Roosting” could possibly be somewhat different than the way people interpreted it in the time when it was first published.

Unfortunately, this is still where I am; I have no good answers for any of these questions.  I just keep nervously offering up my own views on the poems we read, hoping against all odds that my responses aren’t too lame or too far out there.  Thankfully, my classmates have been gentle with me, and I have really learned a lot from their responses.  I have also enjoyed learning about the lives and writings of these poets, and ironically enough, I have enjoyed reading and thinking about each poem.  It’s nice to know that I may struggle and toil to understand what a poem is saying, but I still have no problem appreciating the beauty or complexity of the language… and that’s something.

In the Mind's Eye

So the end of my Modern British Poetry class is drawing near, and through all the discussions we’ve had over the several poems we’ve read, I’ve come away with one interesting little insight.  When looking at the several responses I have given to the discussion questions for each poem, I have realized something about the way I interpret poetry, and probably for that matter, all literary works:  I tend to interpret literature quite… well… literally.  I tend towards looking closely at sections of words and phrases to try to understand what each could mean, and then I try to piece all of those meanings together to come up with an overall interpretation.  I struggle with symbolism and figurative language, and as far as fragmentation and obscurity go… well, let’s just say I won’t be publishing a critical book about modern poetry anytime soon.  I’m sure I’ve driven my classmates crazy with some of my discussion responses, to which I can only say, I’m sorry; this is just the way I am. 

You see, when thinking about my responses and realizing the literalness (not to be confused with literariness!) of my interpretations, I came to the conclusion that I really shouldn’t be surprised; this is just the type of person that I am.  It’s the way I see the world.  I’m a black-and-white, objective, everything-should-be-clear kind of girl, so it’s not too shocking that I would interpret writing in this way—which leads me to my insight.  In seeing this about myself, I realized that everyone else probably does this as well.  We can’t help but interpret writing in the same way and through the same lens we interpret everything in our world.  It’s simply impossible for us to get outside of our heads and our hearts to interpret outside the boundaries of our worldviews.  This is not to say that we cannot be open-minded and consider other possibilities and even find a meaning to a poem that is in contrast with our world view; I just see that when interpreting writing that is subjective, just as when interpreting life, we are all going to exhibit certain tendencies of interpretation that are direct results of the way we view our world.  This came to be specifically clear to me in my response to one of the poems we looked at this week:  “Hawk Roosting” by Ted Hughes.  I ended up responding to the poem based on a major tenet of what I believe about humanity; the way I view the world manifested itself in the way I interpreted what the poem was saying, and I must also say in a way with which others probably disagreed.

I admit that this little insight is nothing super profound, but it’s kind of nice to discover these little things about myself.  At the very least, I’m hoping that this discovery will help me be a little more confident about posting my thoughts on different works of literature.  Most of the time, I’m throwing interpretations out there hoping they don’t sound too very stupid.  If anything, maybe now I can post my views with the assurance of knowing that it’s okay that others may not agree with me; it’s just the way that I see things, and if not right, at least it’s valid.

Do You See It?

The above painting, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus by Pieter Bruegel, finds itself as the centerpiece of a poem by W. H. Auden:  “Musée des Beaux Arts.”  The speaker of the poem seems as if to be walking through a museum (the title being French for “museum of fine art”), musing on the scenes depicted in the paintings he/she sees, particularly musing on the depictions of human suffering juxtaposed with depictions of ordinary life.  In the second part of the poem the speaker specifically references Bruegel’s painting, mentioning how everything in the landscape surrounding Icarus’ fall continues on as if the tragedy is nothing especially significant.

In class, we were asked to think about what Auden might be trying to say about human suffering, and mainly two different interpretations were offered, both very appropriate.  One interpretation is that tragedy is simply one part of the larger picture of life; suffering happens, and life goes on through it.  The other interpretation, the one that came first in my mind, is that Auden is using the poem like Bruegel was using the painting:  to highlight the unawareness of humans to suffering that does not directly affect their own lives.  The ploughman in the picture gives no sign of even noticing the fall; the shepherd has his back turned and his face up to the sky.  The fisherman doesn't even glance up.  The ship in the water has perhaps the best perspective on the tragedy, yet Auden writes, “…and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen / Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, / Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on” (19-21).  Point being, we as humans tend only to notice that which has some bearing to our own lives, and we struggle to be aware of and compassionate to the pain and suffering of others.

I write all of this to relate something interesting that one of my classmates posted regarding this poem.  In a small experiment with the poem’s interpretation, she asked her mother to look at the painting and see if she noticed anything unusual about it.  It wasn’t until this student pointed her mother to the water that her mother noticed the legs of the drowning boy.  I thought this was a great experiment, seeing as I had to admit that I had a difficult time identifying the boy myself, and I knew what I was looking for from the content of the poem.  I’m not sure if I would have seen the drowning Icarus otherwise.  While not seeing something in a painting probably does not prove conclusively that her mother and I are oblivious to human suffering, it is still so interesting to me that Bruegel painted his scene in such a way that the people within the painting are not the only ones that do not notice the tragic end of Icarus.  This may not prove that I’m indifferent to others’ suffering, but it does get me to thinking about it, and that’s possibly the whole point of the painting… and the poem.

So what about you?  Did you see the drowning boy in the painting right off, or did you only look for the scene after reading some of this post?